He opened the door and slipped into the cool halls, stopping suddenly at the nearly complete absence of sound. No more grunts or cries or commands coming from the birthing room. Even the servants, if they were still about their work, seemed to be walking on tiptoe or bare feet lest they disturb the sacred silence.
A new fear drew him up short. Had something happened to Adi while Reuven was out fetching him from the fields?
“Adi?” He called her name as he always did and tilted his head to listen. The indistinct sounds of women’s voices drew him closer to the birthing room.
“I’m here.” Her voice was so faint. He forced back a sob and hurried into the room. He stopped at the threshold. Adi’s gaze met his, but in an instant his eyes traveled to the unmoving wrapped bundle in her arms. Oh, Adi! This time a sob did escape him, but he swallowed hard, forcing his emotions under control. He would not weep. Not in front of her, lest she be driven to despair.
He dragged himself into the room. Naomi stood from where she’d been kneeling at Adi’s side and allowed him to come forward. He knelt beside his wife and cupped her cheek. “You are well?”
She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. She turned the babe so he could see the face of his son. “He’s so perfect.”
He searched her face for some sign that she understood that the child’s gray pallor was not perfect at all. She held him up but did not release him.
Boaz stared at her, uncertain. He glanced at Naomi, who motioned for him to take the child. He looked into his wife’s eyes, saw the expression of sadness, the love. He swallowed hard, then slowly placed a hand on the child’s wrapped body. “Let me hold him?” The fragile look in her eyes sent a stab of fear to his heart.
She nodded but would not release her hold until his third attempt to take the boy. He breathed a sigh when at last he held the unmoving bundle, but as he turned to hand the child to Naomi, Adi clutched his arm with strength he did not think she possessed.
“Don’t take him!” Her voice rose with her weeping. Adi leaned her head against his arm.
He looked at Naomi, his thoughts churning. “We cannot keep him, beloved,” he soothed. “He needs the midwife to clean him for you.” God forgive him. He had lied to his own wife!
“No! She will hurt him. I will do it.”
Naomi came up beside him and managed to grab the child from his arms, but the action brought on more screams from Adi. “Don’t take him!” She turned on him, her gaze wild like that of a she-bear. “They won’t bring him back, Boaz. You must go and get him.”
It took all of his strength to hold her down. Somehow in the chaos he sensed his sister Liora put cloths on Adi’s forehead and heard Naomi call for the town physician. Adi needed herbs for calming, Naomi said in the distance, but Boaz could barely hear her above his wife’s screams.
“It’s all right, Adi. There will be more sons.” He heard his voice calming, soothing her, but her normal willingness to listen to him had fled.
His thoughts churned, his prayers silent, desperate. Adonai, my Elohim, what can I do? How do I help her? Where, how, do we go on from here?
He could not bear to consider why this had happened. Did not the Creator have the right to give and take away? And yet, had Boaz not been righteous? Had he not kept the laws? What possible good could there be in denying them this child? In denying Adi, whose screams made him want to flee but for his need to hold her, to console her, until someone could help.
Please send help.
2
The wind whipped Naomi’s headscarf as she walked with her family to the outskirts of Bethlehem. Gilah, Liora, Neta, and the other women in Boaz’s family surrounded her, scarves pulled low, weeping as they went. Mahlon and Chilion, two of the six men barely able to fit around the tiny bier, led the group, while Boaz supported Adi, nearly carrying her most of the way.
Adi had refused the herbs and insisted that Boaz allow her to come, but Naomi worried. Something was strangely different in Adi’s sudden silence, a malady Naomi had heard the town’s gossips talk of in hushed tones regarding other women who had lost children. Had Adi’s mind altered with such terrible grief? Surely not. Adi would recover as she had with each miscarriage, with each year of barrenness.
Oh Adonai, why should one woman suffer so much loss?
She glanced at Elimelech, overcome with a sudden wave of gratitude for him, for their two sons. The sun glowed nearly red behind them in the west, as though God’s heart bled with Boaz and Adi’s grief. The hills with the line of caves drew closer, the ground barren and dusty and hot beneath Naomi’s sandals. She would welcome the early rains next month and the relief they would bring from the unbearable heat.
She tasted the salt from her tears, her gaze settling again on her own precious family. Elimelech was not much older than Boaz, and Mahlon and Chilion had their whole lives ahead of them. Soon she would have to seek wives for them, and then grandchildren would fill their home.
She stopped as the small crowd came to a halt. Most of the town stayed behind for an infant burial, and many times only the parents’ relatives buried the child in an obscure tomb. But Boaz and Adi were well loved and had lost so much. The family had rallied to support them.
The sun dipped lower, now ablaze over the rise, illuminating the caves. The men carrying the bier laid it on the ground and rolled the heavy stone aside, then lifted the bier again and carried it into the cool interior. Naomi moved closer, peering into the cave. How strange to return to the dust from which they came. Stranger still to never have seen the light of a single day. And yet many women lost infants in such a way. It was common. Accepted.
But one glance at Boaz and Adi made her rethink that acceptance. Adi had always smiled and told Boaz the next one would live. But how much loss could a woman bear?
Melek cleared his throat and faced the small gathering. “May the God who gives life take the life of this child—Menahem, a name Boaz has chosen to comfort them—and give him a place in the kingdom of God. And may the Creator grant another to take this child’s place.”
Soft murmurs of agreement filtered through the family until silence settled once more. Everyone knew that Melek himself had taken two wives in an attempt to bear a son, a competition he’d held with Boaz, though after Adi’s second miscarriage, the teasing and competitiveness had stopped. Melek at least had daughters, and his wives were healthy.
The sound of the stone grating and coming to rest with a thud as it fell into place jolted Naomi. She would never grow used to such a sound, such finality.
She looked at Boaz and Adi, their arms wrapped about each other, their weeping filling the silence. Naomi lifted her voice with the rest of the women, wailing and crying over the loss, then moved as one with her husband’s family and surrounded Boaz and Adi to return to the village.
Six Months Later
1296 BC
Boaz led his donkey over the flat terrain bordering his fields, with Ezra, his overseer, at his side. Though Ezra was not of Israel, he had changed his name and accepted their faith long ago when he came from Egypt as a discarded slave. They had much history in common with Egypt and slavery, and Boaz had found the man to be a good leader and an even better friend.
He caught Ezra’s concerned gaze as they looked out over fields that should be flourishing with wheat and barley. But the rains of Tebet, Shebat, and Adar had failed to come these past three months, leaving a winter that was too mild and devastating for both crops.
“As you can see, my lord, even with the servants carting water from the well near Bethlehem’s gate, the plants are stunted and half are wilted. There will be little harvest this year.” Ezra turned in his saddle to meet Boaz’s gaze. “Shall we go to the next field? It is much the same.”
Boaz stroked his beard, his gaze roaming east to west. Everywhere he looked the land showed mostly dried and brown stalks half their normal size.
“I have seen enough,” he said, shaking his head. Why had Adonai stopped up the heavens? Had the pe
ople sinned in some way? Had he?
“What would you have us do, my lord? At this rate there will be little to harvest.” Ezra’s donkey moved to munch on a small patch of grass that clung to the edges of the field. “I could send the workers home. We could just let it go and count our losses.”
Boaz looked over the fields again, his gaze slanting heavenward. He had barely prayed since the child’s loss, except in Adi’s presence to bless a meal. She knew he was praying by rote, but she seemed as lifeless as he at times, neither one able to force themselves from their stupor. In truth, he worried about her more than he prayed. She was not the same, and he wondered if he would ever have his wife back again. Even her normal reminders to help the poor had stopped.
“You will help them, won’t you, Boaz? We can’t disobey the Lord and greedily glean to the edges of our fields.” She’d been the one to hold a sack of grain out to him for the workers. Until this last babe. Now she moved about the house as one with no purpose. He shivered despite the heat bearing down on his head from a sun too bright.
“We can’t send them home,” he said at last, meeting Ezra’s gaze. “We will double the workforce, draw more water from the well, and pray it does some good.” Adi would be pleased with his decision. Perhaps it would even bring that smile to her face once more, the smile that lingered in his memory but rarely surfaced now.
Ezra kicked his donkey’s sides and followed Boaz as they made their way back to Bethlehem. “What if the well runs dry, my lord?”
Ezra’s words brought him up short. He hadn’t thought of that. The well of Bethlehem had been there for so long, drawing on some underground source. Surely it would last. He glanced heavenward again. If it didn’t rain . . .
“I don’t know what we will do if this turns into a long famine.” Such a thing would be almost worse than his recent loss, for they could lose many people in a famine. Children could die of starvation.
“Let us pray that doesn’t happen,” Ezra said. But his dark brows knit, a sure sign of worry.
He shook himself. “Yes . . . pray.” Would God even hear their prayers? He often sent famine for a reason. And so many were not following the Law of Moses as they had during his father’s lifetime when Joshua led the people. Now, under the judges’ rule, everyone did what they thought was right.
“In the meantime, let us get to work securing those workers and watering these fields.” He glanced at Ezra. “And hope God hears us.”
3
Boaz coaxed his donkey into a fast trot through the gates of the city until he came to the courtyard of his estate. Ezra would follow his command to water the fields and work to save the crop. Boaz would join him later, but for now, he needed to speak to Adi. To reassure himself that she was all right.
Why did such fears for her welfare continually rear up in his thoughts?
A deep sigh lifted his chest, and he heaved the air from his lungs in an effort to calm his emotions. Adi was fine. She was simply grieving. He had nothing to fear. She would conceive again and they would raise a fine family. He had to stop thinking the worst. Surely his mind would be lost like the foolish ones if he did not return to some type of normal life.
Another sigh escaped, less distressed this time, as he stopped the beast at the edge of his outer court, dismounted, and allowed a servant to take the animal to the feeding trough and the stalls beside the house. Reuven met him as he stepped into the entryway, while another servant hurried to take his sandals and wash his feet.
“Are things as bad as you feared, my lord?” Reuven need not ask the question, for they both knew the answer was an obvious one.
Boaz shook his head, willing, forcing, the brooding thoughts aside. He had no right to his anger. Grief had already lingered for six months. They must get on with life despite their loss.
“My lord?”
“Yes,” he said, forcing civility into his tone. “Worse, perhaps.” He barely felt the warmed water or the towel the servant used to dry his feet. “I should meet with the elders,” he said, more to himself than to Reuven. “I sent Ezra to try to salvage our harvest, but the townspeople are going to need to help.”
He stood and walked barefoot over soft rugs Adi had so lovingly placed over the stone floors. She had not worked on such projects since the babe. He stopped, glanced down, struck by the sudden knowledge that Adi had grown more listless than he cared to admit. Servants had taken to doing the things she had once enjoyed, and he saw now why he always felt an urgency to come home during the middle of the day.
“Are you all right, my lord?” Reuven touched his shoulder, and Boaz lifted his head, allowing this one trusted servant a brief glimpse of his pain.
“I fear for her, Reuven. She is thin and pale and the smile no longer reaches her eyes. I don’t know what to do for her.” He heard the despair in his tone, feeling his weakness.
Reuven studied him a long moment, his look thoughtful, not pitying but genuine and kind. “She needs time, my lord,” he said.
Boaz faced Reuven, slowly nodding. “Yes. Time. But how much time is enough? I fear . . .” He looked away. “I fear she will never be the same, never be the joyful Adi I’ve always known.”
“You don’t know that.” Reuven pointed beyond the house to the wide-open spaces. “Perhaps if you took her to the fields or went with her to visit the poor. She has always enjoyed helping others.”
Boaz glanced over the room, and his words stuck in his throat. There Adi stood in the archway, listening. Their gazes met.
Boaz went to her. “Adi.” He cupped her arm.
She shook off his touch. “You think something is wrong with me.”
“No. You are just grieving, and I want to help you.” Boaz lifted his hands in a gesture of entreaty. “Please, Adi. I just want to see the joy in your life again.”
She stared at him. “How is it that you can have joy when our son lies in Sheol? We waited so long . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and Boaz leaned close, attempting to hear, but her words were lost.
“And there will be another. As God gave Seth to Eve in place of Abel, He will give us another, Adi. We just must be patient.” His voice carried a pleading tone, and helplessness crept into his heart once more.
“You can’t be sure of such a thing. Abel lived long before Cain killed him. And that was an entirely different time.” Adi crossed her thin arms and looked at him through hollow eyes.
Boaz longed to pull her close, but she seemed to shrivel into herself and backed away from him. She turned and rushed down the hall toward her room.
“Adi! Wait!” He started after her, but Reuven stopped him.
“My lord, give her a moment, then go to her.”
Boaz paused, turned, and faced his servant. Another deep sigh lifted his chest. “Reuven, I have spent my life doing all God wanted. I have followed the law, have been kind to my neighbors, have given to the poor and helped the orphans and widows. I have done my best not to question the ways of the Almighty, nor charge Him with wrongdoing, and yet here I stand longing to do that very thing.” A shiver worked through him, and he could not stop his hands from shaking. He clenched them and stiffened his spine. “What more could I have done?”
Reuven tilted his head and looked deeply into Boaz’s eyes. “God did not take your son because of some sin you or Adi committed. Our God is not evil, like the gods of the nations around us, nor does He plan to do us harm.”
“Chemosh requires human sacrifice, Reuven. How is the death of an innocent any different? Does not our God control life and death?” The question had haunted him since he’d seen the gray pallor of his only son’s face.
Why, Adonai? The question slipped from his heart unbidden.
“All men die, my lord. It has been the same since the curse of Eden.”
“And yet his time had not even begun.” He almost added, “And God could have prevented it,” but stopped the seemingly blasphemous words.
“No one chooses his time. That is up to God.” Reuven move
d to retrieve a flask of water from a nearby urn Adi had made. He poured some into a cup and handed it to Boaz.
Boaz took the cup but did not drink. He would have smashed it against the wall and stormed from the house but for the staunch sense of self-control that held him in a tight grip.
“I do not understand our God,” he said at last, turning away from his faithful servant. He had never doubted. All his life he had believed what his parents had taught him of the miracles Adonai Elohim had done for Israel. But this . . . this loss was beyond his understanding, and he could not reconcile the God of miracles with one who would let his innocent son die. Not after they had waited so long.
He walked toward Adi’s bedchamber, but called back over his shoulder when he realized the famine still needed to be addressed. He had no strength to deal with another devastating loss alone.
“Send for Elimelech and Melek,” he called to Reuven. “We need to discuss how to save the people from starving since it appears our God has no intention of doing so.”
Naomi stopped turning the grinding stone and looked up at the sound of male voices. Elimelech’s shadow fell across the court’s tiles, and she squinted against the sun’s glare at his approach. Mahlon and Chilion moved to the bench, where a servant quickly met them to wash their feet. Elimelech stroked his graying beard, glanced at both of his strapping sons. The boys were so much healthier now than they had been that long-ago day when the town physician had thought nothing could be done for them. Naomi closed her eyes against the memory of the physician’s shaking gray head and the sorrow in his deep-set gaze.
A brief prayer flew from her heart to the heavens. Thank You, Adonai, that they still live. Both Mahlon and Chilion had contracted some strange malady that made them feverish, with burning throats, red spots over their chests, and such weakness . . .
Naomi drew a breath. It was only a memory now. She shook herself as she turned from gazing on these beloved sons to her husband, who stood before her unmoving.
Redeeming Grace: Ruth's Story Page 2